


Flame

by orphan_account



Series: Queens [1]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-06-23 10:25:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15604260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Like a moth (a stupid moth) Fatuma Emem is drawn to Erik’s flame. For whatever reason that makes sense to the King, she has been assigned to his handler as Erik Stevens slowly heals the wounds of his past. An Erik!Redemption story rewritten to make more sense.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, it’s simplysai, back with Flame! I might also rewrite my other stuff, but we’ll see. I deleted my old account, which I’m sure some of you noticed, but i’ll address that later on, if anyone cares to know why I left.

_“You always did like taking in strays.”_

_Fatuma suppressed the urge to smile when T’Challa side-eyed her, displeasure clear in his expression. Said displeasure faded quickly and instead they gazed through the glass, both eyes on the man slumbering, unaware of the presence of others. The King’s choice had provoked a split response; some felt as though he knew what he was doing, and others thought he was only inviting trouble. “How are you so sure he won’t attempt another coup?”_

_“He is a tortured soul.” She let out a snort, and her king continued, choosing to ignore her sardonic act, “If he proves unable to be helped…that is where you come in.” Fatuma shifted on her feet; she looked over at the king, clasping her hands behind her back, the material of her catsuit shifting against her bruised flesh. Even the vibranium weave could not help against the discomfort she felt; she would need to soak for a long time tonight._

_“He’s going to work out that I’m not just a secretary, you know.” Her full lips curled into a grimace, her dark eyes glittering in the darkness of the room, “He’s going to work out that I’m not just some woman assigned to make sure he does not cause more trouble than he is worth. He might even work out that I’m not human.” The King hummed, and turned to her, placing a hand on her shoulder and squeezing._

_“You undersell yourself, Fatuma.” She quirked a brow ever so slightly, “I will leave you to your duties now. Myown await.” Before the King walked away, she stopped him,_

_“I saw one of the latest War Dog assignments cross my desk. Austria…you’re looking for her again, aren’t you?” T’Challa paused in the doorway, and for a single moment, the firm set of his shoulders slumped a moment, but he didn’t answer; instead he simply shrugged and excused himself. Fatuma shook her head, snorting at the man she called her ruler, turning back to his cousin, lying prone on the operating table. Her brows furrowed and her lips thinned, and she decided very quickly that she would not like this man in the least._

_“Do you want us to wake him?” She’d been so consumed by her thoughts that she forgot that the doctors were nearby. A hardened expression appearing on her face, she waved them off,_

_“Leave him. He’ll wake naturally…eventually.” With that, she spun on her heel and walked out of the lab._

(***)

**Eight Months Later**

“Ambassador, right this way.” Fatuma smiled beautifully at the Nigerian ambassador, the door shutting behind him as he continued on his way. For her part, the secretary was glad to be rid of the rather cantankerous man, and she prayed that T’Challa concluded his business as quickly as possible. Growing used to foreigners in this country, even sparingly, was one thing. Growing used to their awful attitudes…

Shaking her head, she made her way down the palace hallways, her shoes clacking audibly against the polished floors. The servants and guards nodded politely as she walked by; as secretary to the royal family, Fatuma enjoyed a fairly high ranking amongst the palace staff.

Well, that, and they all feared her.

But that was inconsequential. She was going to go back to her bedroom and take a long ass nap while there was a moment to; neither the King nor the Princess would need her for the rest of the day. And with the Nigerian diplomatic party visiting, she’d been up at early hours and going to bed at late ones. She would be pleased when things returned to a semblance of normal, although the little voice in her head teased, _Not likely._

Bast apparently was not merciful, and as soon as the doors to her quarters slid open, she was greeted by Erik “Killmonger” Stevens casually chilling on her sectional, watching some sort of cartoon. All he wore was a pair of gray sweatpants, through which she could see his length. _Even soft,_ she thought, annoyed, _it looks like it could kill a full-grown man. Or reduce a woman to whimpers._ He flashed his golden incisors at her,

“Ay, baby girl, what’s good?” A scowl spread across her face,

“You have your own rooms.” She put down her clear tablet on the kitchen counter; when she turned back to him he had paused his entertainment and instead had his eyes on her. Well, not so much her as her chest, her sizable assets on display in the pencil dress she wore.

“I like your rooms better. You got that view.” He got up from the couch, lazily walking over to her as, utterly unamused, she rolled her eyes and drawled,

“I hope you’re talking about the city skyline.” He wasn’t, she knew, but she put her hand in his face, stopping him in his tracks, “And too bad, all I want to do is rest.” They’d been doing this song and dance for a while (for about two months). Erik would show up in her rooms, she’d sass him, and then…

“That’s cool. Imma help you relax.”

“…” Fatuma’s brows furrowed; she rolled her eyes and headed to her bedroom, the former soldier close behind. Kicking her heels off to the side, she made a mental note to pick up her shoes later on. Flopping down on the bed, still mostly dressed, she grumbled angrily, “Don’t go anywhere near my ass tonight, or I’ll pitch you off of the balcony. There’s an extended meeting tomorrow with the tribal elders and I need to be **sitting**.” Erik hummed in response, and she heard his pants fall onto the ground with a rustle. Because this was Erik, she knew that he was going to completely ignore her and place his large hands on her ass, squeezing the soft flesh tightly through her clothes.

“You think I could stay away from all this?” She could hear the ‘bitch please’ that should have followed his question, but instead he let it go unspoken. _At least,_ Fatuma mused, _I’m guaranteed an orgasm._ Maybe that would help her get to sleep. For his part, the man was completely oblivious to his partner’s rambling thoughts, or so she thought as he gave a harsh slap to her ass, which stung, even with the protective layer of fabric, “You ignoring me?”

“No, you idiot, I’m just tired.” She turned back to him, curiously studying his movements, _why am I letting him do this?_ Her brain shorted out as his full lips found her flesh, followed by the dull pain of his teeth nipping into soft skin; it was like he took her skin tone as a challenge and aspired to leave a mark. His calloused hands traveled up the length of her legs and she bit back a low moan. Her dress moved with his hands, and before she knew it, she was sitting up somewhat so that he could pull it off and toss to the side. Her panties and corset was the next to go; and finally, she was completely nude.  

She could **feel** his satisfaction.

Cocky, arrogant, **miserable** …

She couldn’t suppress the sigh that left her lips as his fingers slipped between her legs, covered in oil ( **where** had he gotten that oil?) and in spite of the fact that she intended for him to do the work, the secretary found herself eagerly (no, not eagerly, more like…something) spreading her legs for his skilled fingers. The egotistical pleasure rolled off of him in waves and she wondered if the king would feel some sort of way about flinging his cousin from the roof of the palace.

“You said you was tired, but you sure seem ready for this to me.” Fatuma let out a disgruntled noise, ignoring the kiss Erik pressed to her shoulder, before sinking his teeth into the flesh again. This time she let out a squeak, pressing back against him as his fingers slid deep inside of her ass, prompting her to let loose a string of profanities. “Just be honest with me, baby girl.”

“The last time that I checked, I have a name.” Erik hummed, pumping his fingers in and out of her. With his free arm, he head locked her, trapping her as his movements sped up. She could feel his length, hot and heavy, pressing against her bare backside and swallowed her nervousness. It just had to be the man with big dick energy…had a large dick. She nearly wrinkled her nose in annoyance, but Erik chose this moment to turn her head towards him, capturing her lips with his own.

“Your name is whatever I decide it is right now.” Before Fatuma could make another smart remark, Erik adjusted himself, sliding right into Fatuma. Her dark eyes popped open, and she grabbed the sheets, nearly rending them with her nails,

“ _Motherfucker!_ ” Eric let out a laugh, carefully bringing Fatuma to her hands and knees. The secretary’s front half, however, rested firmly on the bed, unable to hold herself up. He stretched her so delightfully, the very slight burn feeding her desire for a bit of pain with her pleasure. A dark, smirking chuckle rumbled up from the base of his chest as he leaned over her, nipping her ear as his eyes sparkled with amusement.

“That feel good, don’t it?”

“…Someday I will strangle you.”

“I love it when you talk that nasty shit.” He pressed a kiss that was nearly gentle to her neck, before beginning to grind into her. His glee was apparent at the way that he wrestled little whimpers and moans from her lips; he wasn’t moving brutally or quickly, but the rolls of his hips were deliberate, punctuating each thrust with a grunt. When Fatuma made a grab for her pillow, he pulled her further onto his cock, and breathily teased, “Where you goin’ girl? Can’t take all of this dick?”

Fatuma’s answer was a pathetic whine as he continued his assault on her better judgement. A sinister chuckle was all Fatuma heard as Erik leaned forward, flicking her clit with his fingers. Her toes curled, her back stiffening as he proceeded to have his way with her. She could only imagine the look on his face. Cocky, but completely focused on the task at hand. Dark eyes filled with a heat comparable to the Wakandan sun. she sunk her teeth into her lips as the first shocks of pleasure made their way through her body, and she knew her orgasm was about to claim her.

“Erik, please just…”

“Just what?” He began to rub, not just ghost, and she tried to scramble from underneath him, but Erik held fast. Fatuma refused to beg for an orgasm she could easily give herself. _But it wouldn’t be the same, now would it_? She could **feel** him smirking at the back of her head when she muttered,

“Please just let me come.” He was silent for a moment, and still, before she felt him straighten up.

“A’ight, if that’s what you want.” If he’d been firm with his thrusting before, he was downright rough now, grasping her hips and savagely pounding away at her ass. All she could do was to grasp the bedsheets tightly and keen loudly as he had his way with her. He was speaking to her, but Fatuma was too focused on the sensations coursing through her body. His voice was like a low hum at the peripheral of her awareness, until, like a knot of stress coming undone, she let out a high-pitched cry, her legs shaking as she gushed, orgasm ripping through her like a fire.

She was still trembling, recovering from her orgasm when she heard Erik swear, pull out and something warm splash on her backside. A low groan of protest left her lips, she’d have to get up and clean herself before she could take that long-awaited nap. Fatuma’s sense slowly began to return to her; she turned her head upon feeling a washcloth swipe across her backside. She found Erik straightening up, still buck-ass naked. When he saw that she was looking at him, he smirked,

“You look so good I’m itchin’ for round two.”

“…” Fatuma glowered and scooted up the bed, “Fuck off.”

“Okay, okay, have it your way then.” With that, he picked up his pants and headed into the living room, where she heard the television click on again. As she settled away, a dull ache in her backside, she somehow found it…comforting that Erik hadn’t just bounced after their…whatever this was.

 _I’m like a moth drawn to the flame,_ she thought, as she drifted off, _Will I get burned?_

(…)

True to her expectations, the next morning, Fatuma found sitting to be the utmost challenge. If anyone noticed the pillows she’d put on her seat before sitting, they were polite enough to comment. Well, at least **most** were polite enough to not comment. As she had walked into the room earlier, the Queen Mother came up to her,

“Are you alright, Fatuma?”

“I’m quiet well, Queen Mother.” The elder woman frowned, vanishing for a moment before returning and handing a small cushion to her. The knowing look on the former Queen’s face had Fatuma wishing she could find and crawl under the nearest rock.

Erik’s dick was not worth this embarrassment. 


	2. Chapter 2

If there was anyone that Fatuma was willing to (metaphorically) let her hair down around, it was her sister Halima.

Halima was cheery and loud where Fatuma was grim and quiet, her exuberant and sometimes provocative displays the perfect counterpoint to the royal secretary’s sedate ways. They were almost identical in appearance, despite being 12 years apart in age, but where Fatuma wore her hair in long twists that rested on her shoulders and back, Halima tightly braided her unruly, abundant hair, piling it into a bun on the top of her head.

As Fatuma worked in her office, going over some performance reports, the door slid open and in sauntered Halima, dropping herself into the chair in front of her desk. Her dark eyes glittered in amusement as she said in greeting:

“Did something crawl up the Usurper’s ass and die?” Fatuma raised a brow, closing out some of the screens that she was surveying,

“What did he do now?”

“Snarled at me like a rabid lion.” Halima folded her arms, “All because I said a few words to him.” Fatuma knew her sister well enough to know that Halima hadn’t just ‘said a few words’ to him. Folding her arms as she sat back in her chairs, she warned,

“The truth, Halima.”

“…” The warrior gave a nervous smile and nervously giggled, “…I might have told him to keep his filthy hands to himself when it came to you.” Fatuma rolled her eyes and reached over the desk to smack Halima over the head, muttering angrily under her breath. This only served to amuse the younger woman, prompting her to laugh and shake her head. “It’s true! You can do so much better than a man little better than an attack dog?” The elder sister snorted,

“You’re literally a War Dog, what does that make you?” Halima sniffed and Fatuma turned back to her work, chuckling, amused. “Leave Erik alone, Halima. I can handle him. Once he’s fed and fucked, he’s not so bad.” Not entirely true; Erik’s moods waxed and waned like the moon. Some days, he was calm and agreeable, and other days he made it his solemn duty to drive her to madness. She found that keeping him mentally occupied was the best bet when he decided it was time to pop in on her. Lately he was reading one of the great Wakandan epics, messaging her late at night to ask her about a particular theme or scene he found interesting. Forcing her mind to turn away from the topic of Erik Stevens, Fatuma said, “Now, I heard you got a new assignment?”

“The King wants to send me to Jabariland as some sort of…envoy? Diplomat? M’Baku respects strength and apparently I am strong.” At this, Fatuma frowned. There were others more qualified than Halima, who was only 22. Not to mention Halima had the subtlety of a charging rhino in her day to day life. Diplomat she was not. But that last bit made sense; the Jabari didn’t particularly enjoy the occasionally pragmatic dialogue that the lowlanders preferred to use. And so, the elders sister observed, T’Challa’s choice makes sense. My sister would speak straight to the Jabari Tribe leader. He might even be impressed with the things that come out of her mouth.

“It sounds like an excellent opportunity.”

“It sounds like I’ll be there for two years. With occasional visits down here, but still.” Halima let out a dramatic groan, “I’ve heard it’s so cold up there.”

“We are related to the Udaku, who have few members as it is.” Fatuma peered at Halima, “You don’t think we were chosen for the positions by our merit alone, did you?”

“Of course not.” Halima folded her arms, “But still. Why not send someone like Nakia? We’re the king’s 7th cousins, why are we diplomats? She could have been queen, if she really wanted.”

Fatuma hummed at the mention of the king’s former paramour. She neither liked nor disliked Nakia, respected her in fact, merely thought that the woman occasionally thought more of herself than was necessary. Oh, there was no doubt she did what she did out of the goodness of her heart for the most part, but she was still a member of the Merchant Tribe, and that meant she had her eyes on some form of power. She would just caution the king, that was all. “Nakia is a spy. M’Baku would not entirely appreciate her presence amongst his people.”

“And I’m not?”

“No, you’re what we send in when we need someone’s brains rattled in their skull. You are more shock troop than spy.” Halima let out a dramatic sigh and stood, putting her hands on her hips and cocking a brow at her sister. Fatuma peered at her, frowning, “What? It’s true.”

“Why not send you? You could just stare M’Baku into submission. That’s what you did to me as a child.”

Fatuma clicked her tongue and threw a balled-up napkin at Halima’s head, “Get out, you little brat.”

Halima grinned and blew her sister an obnoxious kiss, sauntering out of the room and leaving the secretary to her thoughts. Fatuma snorted; it sometimes appeared that the only thing that Halima could be mature about was her work. In everything else, she was a child. It made her sister smile contentedly. In spite of the dark things Halima had faced, there was still an innocence to her.

She worked in relative peace for a while longer, before the King’s face appeared before her own in vibranium form:

“Fatuma, I need to speak to you in my office.”

“I’m on my way.”

(…)

When she arrived, Erik and T’Challa were sitting across from one another; T’Challa was holding the Golden Jaguar (Shuri’s idea) necklace in his hands.

“What is this?” Fatuma looked over at her King, one brow quirked.

“I have been discussing with Erik the possibility of joining you on a field mission.” At this, Fatuma’s brows popped up, and she opened her mouth to inquire after the wisdom of such a thing, but T’Challa cut her off, “However, he has expressed doubt that you are able to complete a field mission.” Confusion turned into resigned exasperation and she turned to face Erik with an unamused expression. The man immediately defended himself,

“Nah, don’t make me the asshole in this, cuz.” Erik scowled, “I didn’t say shit about her not bein’ able to complete a field mission, what I said was ‘I thought she was a secretary’.”

“I am. I’m also the king’s backup in case anything happens to the Dora Milaje.”

“Prove it.” Fatuma blinked at Erik, then asked,

“I beg your pardon?”

“Prove it.” He folded his arms, “I know you ain’t some lil girl, but I also don’t see anythin’ suggesting you’re some kind of bodyguard.” Fatuma looked over at T’Challa, as though asking permission. The King jerked his head, and Fatuma walked up to Erik, who gave her a cocky expression. Fatuma smiled before walking around to his back, securing her hands around his middle, and piledrove him into the ground so hard that it cracked.

Erik let out a grunt as Fatuma flipped, landing in a crouch and watching as the ex-soldier slowly got up. He turned towards her, rolling his shoulders, and without missing a beat, demanded, “You a metahuman?”

“Mutant, actually.” Fatuma stood up, fixing her dress, as T’Challa explained,

“Fatuma is a distant relation to our family.” At Erik’s horrified expression, which Fatuma smothered a giggle at, T’Challa forcefully said, “Very distant.” Erik relaxed somewhat, and the King continued, “The Emem are known for being born with powers that no one could properly explain, but I have a theory that the Heart-Shaped Herb might have mutated their genetics.”

“So…super-strength?”

“In addition to a healing factor and inhuman reaction speeds.” Fatuma tucked one of her twists behind her ear, “My sister has the strength and natural durability, but no healing factor or reaction speed. Strength and healing seems to be standard, but the Emem family is like playing the lottery. You don’t know what you’re going to get.” Erik hummed, before side-eyeing T’Challa,

“So that’s why you put her in charge of me.” The king turned to face his cousin, who regarded him with dark, accusing eyes.

“Could you blame me?”

“…Nah.” Erik blew out a breath, “Don’t think I could.”

“…” T’Challa chose not to respond to that, before going back behind his desk, “There are rumors of a mercenary army in Madripool acquiring some vibranium. They are known for committing mass murders in the name of racial purity, which raises suspicion about their actions on Madripoor, seeing as it is ruled by Asian elites. Erik, you will accompany Fatuma to address this, and if necessary, neutralize the enemy and recover whatever they have.” Fatuma asked,

“How big is this army?”

“According to our spies, not more than 80 strong.” The secretary hummed, before looking at Erik. He quirked a brow at her expectantly, before she asked, in an unusually light and teasing tone,

“’What do you say? Want to stretch your legs, Killmonger?” Erik seemed to think for a long moment, before saying,

“Ya’ll have had me cooped up here for too long, I’m ready to go now, if you want.” As they left T’Challa’s office, Erik asked,

“You knew about that cousin shit?”

“Relax, you big baby. T’Challa, you and I share a grandfather six times removed. We have very few genetic similarities.” Erik let out a snort, and she laughed, teasing, “You wanted to be king? Even in Wakanda, the noble sphere was rather singular. In the past you might have married your close relation to retain power and loyalty.” Erik scowled fiercely, Fatuma relishing the rare chance to rile him up. Before she could tease him more, she found herself pressed up against the wall, his face inches from her,

“You think you funny, huh?”

“I am hilarious.” He chuckled and leaned in, pressing his lips to hers. Unsure of what to do with herself, she didn’t pull away, but she didn’t return the gesture either, and he smirked,

“There’s a closet nearby. Or a study. Whatever works, baby girl.”

Fatuma struggled to keep her lips from twitching; instead she found the man flashing his golden caps at her. Her stomach quivered as she considered the tempting offer, but her duty ultimately won out. Pushing him away, she said, “We need to get ready; the sooner we get this mission overwith, the sooner I can come back and take a long ass bath.”

“You really like your baths, huh?”

Fatuma hummed, and headed down the hallway. She heard Erik following after her, and wondered if perhaps her pessimism towards this mission was misplaced.

 

 


End file.
